A Hairy Moment

"It's fantastic," I say with relish, "I know I say this every time, but you are a genius."

The praise is accepted graciously by H, who has just cut my hair and affected what could be called a sea change; transforming my usual spiky mess into a sensible and grown-up spiky style.

"Really," I continue to enthuse, building up a head of steam, "I know I shouldn't say this since it's my hair, but it looks great. I'm complimenting your handy-work really, not bigging myself up."

"I'm pleased with it, it's come out well" says H, calmly and with a touch of self-deprecation. We walk over to the till and busy ourselves with the business of payment. I catch the eye of one of the girls who works in the salon.

"Seriously," I say in a totally unprompted outburst, "your man here is a genius, I am so impressed as always!"

"I like your hair more spiky," she says "like it was when you came in."

I cannot help but think that this is not the best thing for someone who works in a hair salon to say.

Rumours

"Chuck Klosterman," I say with the skewed intonation of the tipsy yet assured "will tell you it's the best album on the 1970s. I think he might have a point, although I'd be willing to listen to contrary opinions involving Led Zeppelin."

It is sunny. I am in a park with a crowd of people I have previously not met, and I am holding court. Expressions on the other side of the picnic blanket are largely glazed. It would be clear to anyone with less white wine inside them that none of these people are quite as passionate about Fleetwood Mac's Rumours as I. I have ingested just enough white wine and sunshine to feel (or rather, wholeheartedly believe) that they might just want to ditch the talk of weddings and holidays and discuss whether the opinions of one of Spin Magazine's finest are correct.

"I don't think I've heard it." Says one of my new companions.

"Ah!" I say, ignoring the idea that this was supposed to close the conversation "You probably just think you've not heard it. The great genius of Rumours is that everyone has somehow heard it subconsciously. A compelling argument for it's greatness, I think we can all agree. You all know Dreams, I bet...?"

I sing a few, disjointed bars.

"Didn't The Corrs sing that?" Says someone. I roll my eyes and draw breath for a stream of invective. There is giggling and I feel the conversation slipping down a rubbish nineties pop tangent as people try to recall how many sisters there were and whether they felt sorry for Jim.

"No, no," I grapple, "they did sing it but the point is..."

One girl turns to another.

"So then," she asks, "how was the honeymoon?"

I give up.

Schoolboy French

Having been awoken by the alarm at 3am, it is possible that I was already not in the best of moods. Since that rude awakening I had crossed London in a taxi, crossed the channel on the Eurostar and crossed Paris on the suburban rail. This is a lot to ask of a man on four hours sleep.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I spotted the bag, already positioned possessively on my pre-booked window seat. The bag belonged to a slightly haughty-looking French lady who was at that moment attempting to loft a suitcase the size of a small cow into the luggage rack. I glanced down at my ticket to confirm my suspicions that I was in the right, and then met her eyes with a winning smile.

The smile was, it could be said, not an instant winner. I pointed at the bag on the seat and made a polite yet inquisitive face. I proffered my ticket, temporarily stumped and unable to remember the French for forty-five. She examined my ticket, got out hers (which clearly bore the number forty-six) and started to scrutinise the seat numbers on the carriage wall.

There was no doubt in my mind that I was having that window seat. I had not pre-booked this ticket in order to look at the blue carpeting of the carriage's aisle. Indeed, the constantly scrolling cinerama of French countryside was to be a particular highlight of this five-day jaunt. Something would need to happen.

Drawing deep upon my A-Level French, I pointed to the seat and said, gently yet firmly, "C'est le mien. Numero quarante-cinq est près de la fenetre."

She huffed a bit, but my seat was relieved of the bag. Thus, with a slight feeling of pride, I settled in for the journey.